


Reflections

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>patk asked for this: Blair's standing at the deck of a ship, his glove-covered hands clutched around the rail, wearing a long black coat.  A harsh wind tugs on his hair, his facial expression is stony. I hope it suits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

## Reflections

by reetchick

These characters are not mine, and I make no profit using them. 

Thanks to alee for beta duty, good suggestions, and encouragement. Thanks to CJ for the title. This is my first "official" TS story; any and all feedback is warmly welcomed.

Set after S2P2, but before Murder 101

* * *

Does it seem like I'm looking for an answer to a question I can't ask? - Nightingale, Norah Jones 

* * *

You step onto the deck of the brightly festooned tour boat. The wind whips across your face, a stinging blast that you credit with bringing tears to your eyes. You track the dark figure as he approaches the railing, moving his gloved hands to cling to it, cautiously extending his head over the edge to look down into the waves. 

You wonder what he sees there, why he goes there. Every night for the last nine he's crept noiselessly out of his bed to come to this place. This silence is completely unlike him, you think - at least, it's unlike the him you know, or thought you did. 

The wind picks up even more, and on it, his scent carries to you. You indulge yourself in its pleasant familiarity for the barest of moments. It envelops your mind as you greedily suck in deep, deep breaths full of his scent. Full of him. 

You pull yourself back before you slip too far in, though you want nothing more than to immerse your senses in him, in all of him. 

You want to run your hands over the smooth-rough skin of his face, tangle your fingers in the red-brown curls of his hair. To watch him move from sleep to wakefulness as he lays, content, in your arms. To run your tongue over his lips and into the depths of his mouth. 

You've only tasted him once, and it wasn't enough. It'll never be enough. 

His heart rate increases to a frantic pace, and you realize the little pontoon you're aboard has embarked on its pleasure cruise around the harbor. It's a tourist trap, one of those "must-see" places for anyone desperate enough to be spending their vacation in Cascade. But it's a boat, and it's on the water. It allows him to be near the water without touching it; every night, he stares it down, and you stare at him, unseen. 

You could easily drive yourself mad wondering just what it is he's seeking in the foamy, frothy waves. Understanding? Answers? Forgiveness? What kind of thoughts does a man grapple with once he's come back from the dead? 

Even if you were bold enough to ask it, you wonder if he'd answer that question. You're more afraid that he would than that he wouldn't; you know, irrational as it is, that he very much wants to blame himself for everything that's happened. For all his certainty, you know the truth: the fault is yours. You don't trust. You don't have faith. He's spent the better part of the last three years trying to understand you better, and you've only now realized that you've never extended him the same courtesy. 

You left him once, not too long ago. Truth be told, you forced him to leave. Whether or not you thought you were doing it to keep him safe - and the idea that you were thinking at all is a fairly sketchy one, that much you're able to admit - you know that you should have told him what was going on. But you didn't, and because of it, he died. Died. 

You face him again, studying his carefully motionless form. His long hair whips around in the cold salt-wind; his hands flex again and again on the rail, like he wants to let go but can't quite bring himself to do it. Is he standing here trying to work up the courage to let go? Does he want to let go - of you, of the diss, of the roller-coaster life he's somehow started leading? 

Or is he trying to hold on? 

You don't know. You don't know any of the answers; you don't even know what questions you're supposed to ask. 

But there is one thing you know all the way into your soul. 

You need him. 

You straighten your shoulders and take in one last deep breath before you cross the deck, hoping you're doing the right thing. 

Whatever it is he's trying to accomplish, you aren't going to let him stand alone anymore. 

* * *

End Reflections by reetchick: daga8922@cox.net

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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